Cat Tales 16
We heard a rustling in the woods but couldn’t see anything. My husband and I stopped to listen, wonde ring what it could be. Through the tangled bush, off the side of the hiking trail on our North Georgia mountain farm, we finally spotted a beautiful, brown - mottled cat munching on a bird. Feathe rs were dripping from her mouth and whiskers, just like the cats you see in cartoons. Then, to our surprise, we heard a kitten’s meow, and a tiny gray tabby with gold eyes came out from the underbrush. Unaf raid, the kitten came right up to us, but the mother cat ran away.
I stooped to pick he r up and nestled her unde r my chin. Her soft face rubbed against my cheek. “Isn’t she sweet?” I said. My husband agreed. I think he loves cats more than I do.
“Look, hon,” I said, “she’s got six toes, like the Hemingway cats."
"They look like little mitte ns,” he said. “We have to keep her. Can we, please?"
"Sure, but what do you think Figuero will do when we bring her home ? He’s had the run of the house for years. And what about the dog, having to deal with another cat?"
"Everyone will have to adjust,” I said. “She’s coming home with us. Her six toes must represent a good omen, don’ t you think?”
After much deliberation, we decided to name he r after the 1968 classic tune by Tommy James and the Shondells, “Mony Mony.” At home, Figuero, our super-fat, laid-back, black-and-white cat tolerated Mony’s playfulness. Our borde r collie, Ruby, knew to stay back from Mony’s lightning -fast swats.
As Mony grew, howeve r, her feral ways returned. Though I didn’t unde rstand what was going on with her, I kne w she was miserable. She wouldn’ t let us come near her, and when we did get close enough to touch her, she hissed. Her attitude got so bad that we gave her the nickname “Meany Mony.”
After being hissed at one too many times, my husband said, “Don’t you think we shoul d bring her back up to the farm whe re she came from? She probably will be much happier there.”
I nodde d in agreement. “Yes, she’s not at all happy as a city cat. Besides, she would have the barn for protecti on, and I believe she is quite capable of taking care of herself.”
I bought he r a feeder that would hold enough food to carry her through the week. We left her with much trepidation, hopi ng and praying she would be okay. Sure enough, all went well. Actually, she not only got by, she thrived. Her whole demeanor changed. She started loving on us again. Upon our weekend arrivals, even before the car door would slam shut, we could hear he r coming to greet us, meowing her hellos with each step.
After a while, we had more trails cut through our property. On the hilly part, we have two good miles of paths. Hiking the steep terrain helps keep us in shape. Our borde r collie loves to hike as much as we do. She bounds ahead of us, looking back constantl y to make sure we are following her. We can even hike through the summer, if we get out early in the day before it heats up too much.
One day, we had anothe r tag-along. Behind us we heard Mony’s telltale meow walk, just like she does when she comes to greet us. We were amazed that she wanted to hike with us, and we thought for sure she would turn back. But she didn’t. She stuck it out for the entire hike. Now she follows us regularly when we go on our walks.
One summer day, we let too much of the morning slip by before we started on our trek. We soon realized we should have waited until the next day. Sweat pouring off our brows, we looked back and saw poor Mony still behind us, panting, with her ears bright pink. A real troope r, she never stopped to rest. Now that’s some cat, a dedicated hiker, through and through.
When I think of Mony, the hiking cat, she gives me hope for the drea m my husband and I have for our prope rty. We want to start a tree farm and grow pesticide -free vegetables for our community. We hope to get involved with Community Supported Agriculture (CSA), whereby people would sign up to receive a portion of our crops on a weekly basis, and to also provide fresh produce to local farmer’s markets.
Who are we, one might ask, to think we can become farmers at midlife? But to us, becoming farmers is like the cat becoming a hiker. My husband has been a corporate executive for eighteen years, and I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Like Mony, who was miserable in the city, my husband has become extre mely uncomfortable with corporate life. On top of being unhappy at work, the daily four-hour commute downtown makes it even harde r to face each day. Since we bought our farm prope rty, he lives for the weeke nds. He loves working outside.
When he’s in the great outdoors, growing and building things, he feels like he’s in his element. I love being his helpmate, too. Although hard work can be a challenge, it totes great rewards, one of the biggies, stress relief. As his work downtown trudges on, worry etches lines in my husband’s face. Spending time at the farm erases those lines.
Mony Mony has taught me a thing or two. She has shown me that when we leave an environme nt that makes us uncomfortable and go to a place where we feel at home, we can flourish. We can accomplish things that are out of the ordina ry for us, things that surprise othe rs. If we’re in our element, we can be successful at whatever we put our minds to, even if the effort causes our tongues to hang out and our ears to turn red. Thanks, Mony Mony, for inspiring us to reach for our drea ms.